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"There you go," Wendy said, headed for the door at the back. "You're a natural."
"I'll be back in just a second," Shari said, grabbing one of the ru
Elgars just nodded as she continued to tap the baby. With no one talking to her she was free to experiment with the feeling she had had. It was not just a stillness, but a sort of unfocused awareness of her surroundings. Although it seemed to reduce the effect of the children's voices she could still hear them clearly. And she found herself noticing little details. It was a moment of transcendent stillness and perfection that she had rarely enjoyed. And all because she found herself wanting to rip the little bastards' throats out.
At which point the little twerp she was holding threw up half its lunch.
* * *
"I work there six days a week, six hours per day," Wendy said as they made their way back to Elgars' quarters. "Since you're supposed to follow me around . . . I think you're supposed to work there too. It will fulfill your community service obligation anyway." She looked over at Elgars, who had had that strange stoniness to her countenance ever since Amber had burped. They probably should have explained about the towel.
"So, uh, what do you think?"
Elgars thought about it. She had become familiarized with making large quantities of something called "grits" which seemed to be the staple food for children. She had also learned how to change diapers. She'd tried reading a book, but that hadn't worked out too well.
"I di'n't l'ke it," Elgars said and worked her mouth trying for more clarity. "I's not as ba' as sur-ge-ry with no drugs. Close but not as bad."
"Oh, it's not that bad," Wendy said with a laugh. "It is a tad noisy, I'll admit that."
Elgars just nodded. She supposed it was one of those things that you had to put up with. Like vaginal exams and pain threshold tests.
"That's sort of my day," Wendy continued, looking at Elgars worriedly. "Except extraction drills. Like I said, I'm a reserve fire/rescue. That's Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday I go to the range. And one hour in the gym every day except Sunday."
Elgars just nodded. It was different than the hospital, but that was good. The hospital mixed unpleasant sameness with occasional bouts of pain. This at least was consistent.
"Are you okay?" Wendy asked.
"Don' know," Elgars admitted. "Want to kill something."
"From the kids?" Wendy said nervously.
"Maybe. M'stly wa
"Your speech is already improving," Wendy pointed out. "Maybe the psychs will let you go soon." They had arrived at Elgars' quarters and she shook her head. "Maybe you should write to your commanding officer and ask him to intervene. Even though you're on hospital status you're still on his books. He's got to want to get you back. Or get you off the books. And he can't do that without the shrinks getting off the fence."
"How d' I d' that?" Elgars asked with a frown.
"There are public e-mail terminals," Wendy said. "Let me guess, they didn't tell you you have e-mail access, right?"
"No," A
"Do you have an address for your commander?" Wendy wondered. "If not, I bet I know who could forward it. . . ."
CHAPTER 9
The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
–Rudyard Kipling
"Recessional" (1897)
Near Cayuga, NY, United States, Sol III
1723 EDT Sunday September 13, 2009 ad
Mike sat in the sunshine on Fort Hill looking down over the interleaving ridges and marshes ru
The terrain had been perfect for the human defenders; with all the roads and bridges cut, the Posleen assaulting out of fallen Syracuse had been cold meat in the first days of the war. Whether slogging through the numerous marshes or rushing the slab-sided hills they had fallen by the hundreds of thousands. And human losses, while high, had been a bare fraction; it was believed that the Battle of Messner Hill had achieved over one thousand Posleen deaths for every human defender.
Therefore, the decision to retreat barely a month into the war had been a critical blow. It had been on the plains between Clyde and Rochester that the Ten Thousand was born and the ACS died. It was in the politically driven decision to defend every hamlet, to counterattack every hilltop, that six divisions of veteran soldiers had been turned into food for the alien invaders. In the process, over three thousand M-1 tanks and two thousand irreplaceable suits had been lost. It was on the Ontario Plain that the war was nearly lost.
But now it was all returned. The Posleen, once broken in the brick-dust ruins of Rochester U, had run. And the ACS and the Ten Thousand hammered them for it. The Ten Thousand needed no encouragement; from the lowest buck private to their commander, every single soldier believed in "keepin' up the skeer." And any time a Posleen force turned at bay they would call on the supporting artillery and ACS.
That last, however, had cost the ACS battalion dear. Every suit was precious and they had lost better than two dozen troopers or suits in the pursuit. Supposedly a few new ones were on the way. But when they arrived would be problematical.
Looking down over the sparkling marshes, though, Mike had to believe it was worth it. The Ontario Plain was the weakest point in the Eastern U.S. With it back in human hands not only was there defense in depth—unlike at the begi
Mike didn't even raise his head at the sound of a helicopter behind him. That was the definitive sign of a secure area; any aircraft was vulnerable to God Kings' fire and helicopters were worse than planes. If a helicopter was buzzing around it meant that all was right with the world. He smiled and recrossed his feet on the headless God King propping them up. Life was good.
Jack stepped out of the OH-58 and shook his head. It looked like the orders he brought were none too soon. There were quite a few signs that both the 1st /555th and the Ten Thousand needed a break. But the crests that some of the Ten Thousand troopers had attached to their rucksacks was nothing compared to the head of a God King stuck on an upthrust sword. The dripping yellow trophy had stained the weapon, probably the God King's own boma blade, and pooled under the ACS commander.
But Mike didn't seem to notice that little fact or the smell, despite having his helmet off. He just kept looking to the east, towards Syracuse and the distant Atlantic. Towards the enemy that held the plains.
The general walked up behind his former aide with a glance at Mike's staff. The group of officers and NCOs kept a respectful distance, also looking to the east and conversing in low tones. Most of them were young, like the commander, and all had learned in a hard school. But Horner understood the difference, the reason they were not starting to act oddly; they didn't have the added weight of command.
From the very first contact with the Posleen, O'Neal had been in one position of command or another. Frequently, in the early days, these were thrust upon him unexpectedly. And unlike Horner he had not had the time before the war to come to terms with the weight of responsibility or the little tricks that commanders learned to manage the load. The result was his psychological management techniques took unexpected and, arguably, unwise directions.